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Tuesday, July 31, 2012

“Aren’t they going to think you’re weird, Jen?” he asks. “Traditionally,
people bring food to the new neighbors, not vice versa. Won’t they feel
obligated to reciprocate?”

“I don’t know. I think it’ll be nice," I reply, "and I want to share
these cookies with them. My parents do things like that in their neighborhood.”
My parents live in the inner city and are intentional about connecting with
their neighbors. Bringing cookies, working in their own yards and in the community gardens,
teaching families how to grow vegetables for the first time, prayer-walking past
strip clubs, drug houses, and talking with prostitutes, or encouraging neighbor
kids to get their GEDs, my parents are loving people each day, in each
encounter.

Armed with a family photo complete with name captions and a message
introducing ourselves as the new owners of the yellow house on the corner, I
ambled down my own suburban/industrial road.

At one house, a woman in jean shorts pulled weeds from
around a landscaped tree, surrounded by a lush green lawn. “Your grass is
lovely,” I called out. She turned and I introduced myself.

“I’ve lived here for seven years and you’re the first person
who has ever introduced themselves to me,” she said. We spoke of former
neighborhoods and swat teams, and our children and purple coneflowers. Shaking
hands and speaking of bonfires some summer night, we parted ways.

I met more neighbors, handing chocolate chip and butterscotch
cookies to a cautious slender-faced woman behind a screen door, and to a pony-tailed
mom heading out. Seeing people’s faces change from skepticism born of too many
telemarketers and door salesmen, to relieved surprise and slivers of pleased warmth
delights me every time.

At home right after, my family of five gathers around a
scratched cherry-wood table from my husband’s youth, passing salad dressings
for crunchy lettuce and tomatoes, or shredded cheese for baked potatoes. In
between bites, conversations, and pepper passes, I remember a couple I do not
know, have never met. Their tiny son fights for life in a hospital room, a “failure
to thrive.” Forks paused, I ask my family if we can pray for these people we do
not know in person, but whom the blogworld has brought to life. Suddenly
fearing tears, I ask my husband to pray. Five heads bow, toddler son joins in,
swirling tomatoes on the side, as my husband prays for this family-- who is in
our family because, in Jesus, we are family.

After supper, I head outside again, grab my tiny metal spade
and pry weeds from the asphalt driveway. Sprawled on the ground, I dig like a
child at the beach, heave hard, and wipe dirt across my forehead. Grabbing
another weed, I grin at the sight I must make when cars pass, with legs slightly spread, braced
for better leverage.

And this is how neighbors work, I muse. Neighbors near and
neighbors far, even across invisible internet waves, humbly, on the ground,
pulling weeds, admitting failures and gnarled issues, working openly to make
things right. Warm welcomes mixed with cookie morsels or family prayers, and then right back onto
the ground we go, humbly pulling weeds, sprawled out like a child with a
shovel.

Friends here, my reader friends, I appreciate you so much.
Thank you that we can do life together online or in person, pulling weeds,
opening up about life, and sharing desserts together too. I think of you all
tonight and am thankful for you. Thanks for your comments throughout the years,
for your open lives, and for your encouraging presence here, where we can learn
and grow together. For those joining us via email, feel free to click here to
join the discussion. I appreciate you all.

Friday, July 27, 2012

It takes a midnight nightmare to let you know what verses
you have on active file.

Trying to comfort a frightened four year old, yet still
maintain that last vestige of sleep cover, I started reciting the songs and
verses that came without thought. “My God is so big, so strong and so mighty,
there’s nothing my God cannot do. The mountains are his, the rivers are his; the
stars are his handiwork too. My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there’s
nothing my God cannot do.”

“I will lie down and sleep in peace, Oh Lord, for you alone
will keep me perfectly safe.” Psalm 4:8 passed my lips multiple times – a
standard at our house when rocking children during midnight terrors. Apparently
I need to learn more verses against fear.

He grabbed tight, pressing tear-stained cheeks close to
mine, when I suggested going back to bed. “No!” So we snuggled closer and I
whispered the songs that come without thinking, that spring forth. “God is so
good, God is so good, God is so good, he’s so good to us. He gives good things,
he gives good things, he gives good things, he’s so good to us.”

Eyes closed, half asleep, I kissed his cheek, crooning “Jesus
Loves me” against sweaty hair that was already starting to cool, and lifted him
to his bed. Pulling the blankets up to his chin, I whispered, “Jesus is so big
and strong, Daniel. He loves you and takes care of you. Who told the wind and
storm to stop that day in the boat? Whose friends said, 'Wow, even the wind and
waves obey him!'? You can talk to Jesus anytime, Daniel.”

My son grabbed his blanket and new red Spiderman figurine close
and started whispering. Tiptoeing out of the room, I was suddenly not certain
who Daniel was praying to at that moment.

It went from learning about spiders to a Spiderman craze. One minute the little girl from nursery with chunky
Spiderman rain boots was an anomaly to him, and the next minute he knew Spiderman’s
name, asked for him at Target and hugged him fiercely throughout the day.

But at mealtimes, at wounds or sad moments and in joy, my
little boy knows who to talk to. He begs to pray at each meal, and complains
when it’s someone else’s turn. “Jesus, thank you that…” and his list goes long.
At those times, Spiderman lays dormant in corners across the house. I don’t
mind when later, he and Daniel run through the house, chasing imaginary bad
guys, and escaping down the slide.

There is something in us that cries out for heroes, champions,
warriors. In our world of human trafficking, poverty, injustice, hurt and
dysfunction, we want to know that the bad guys will be caught, that justice
will prevail, and little ones protected. And I love that our Judge, Warrior, and
Hero wrangles compassion and second-, third-, fourth-chances, in a
mind-boggling dance with justice. All are called to account, all are loved, all
stand before their Judge.

I’m pondering Spiderman, superheroes, and champions tonight.

My dad hooked me on on a new tv series about police forces who
negotiate and talk down armed intruders. Throwing themselves into danger, they
sacrifice their lives and safety nightly.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Cocoa paint congealed in my orange plastic tray today, as my seventeen year old
son's sick voice continued huskily. "My fever is higher again and I just wanna
be home."

"Oh bud, why don't you sleep there tonight and I'll come get you first
thing tomorrow morning?"

It was late afternoon, with rush hour starting soon, and his camp was a three
hour's drive away. Plus my new trim paint brush dripped freshly-loaded
paint, and splashes were already beginning to harden on the wall.

He waited quiet on the phone, breathing hard, and my husband motioned me to go
from the background. "Really?" he asked then weakly and the mom in me
caved.

Interestingly, both my sons struck fevers on the same day – 133 miles apart
from each other. Saturday morning, my youngest woke us up at five am, padding
in on hot little legs, whimpering. His heart thumped madly in his tiny chest,
and we cuddled on the couch as the sun rose. Later that day, while I was on my
way to urgent care with flushed little Daniel, we got the call that John, our
oldest son, was feverish and ill at camp as well.

Red-cheeked, limp, and vacant-eyed, four year old Daniel slumped against his
car-seat Saturday. I maneuvered corners, and scanned the directions. "We're almost
there, okay, buddy? How are you doing?"

"Me doing well, Mom," he stated weakly, lapsing into silence. Minutes
later, a tiny voice from the back seat broke the quiet. Straining to hear what
he was saying, I was amazed to hear him singing, "oh my soul...,”a worship song that he knew.

An elusive magazine article, that has slipped my brain, promised better health and peace of mind to me this week, all through the power of singing. (When I find it, I'll link it here, okay? Sorry.)

Today, after washing cocoa paint from my fingers, I grabbed the keys and headed
out. Can I admit to you, though, that I was crabby and begrudging the delay in
painting? Rain hit halfway through the trip, and my broken windshield wipers
flopped oddly, smacking rubber against the top of my car and along the passenger
side, smearing my vision as I drove. I grumbled. My paper directions and the
roads didn't coincide. I grumbled, stopped for directions, pulled into some
u-turns, and grumbled again.

He talked to me, then, my Maker; he sent seas of sunflowers to line my
highways, and jump-start my sense of humor. I cracked jokes to myself, grinning
madly at them, apologizing to him, and choosing joy. Turning on Christian
radio, I started to sing along.

At the camp, my car crept along curving, crackling dirt roads. Tracking him
down, I found my tall, lanky seventeen year old son in a temporary sick bay, looking gaunt and weak. We loaded him up, hugged the
summer staff good bye, and headed home, a three hour trip.

"Mom, I was a little bit angry at God," he admitted ten minutes onto
the highway. "I didn't want to be sick anymore, so I decided to sing. I
knew that praising and cursing couldn't come out of the same mouth-- not that I
was cursing, Mom -- but I chose praise. I couldn't really sing; I didn't
have much of a voice." He shared also of playing the guitar and dripping sweat.

"My voice was kind of squeaky," he laughed, trailing off
weakly, and he stared slack-jawed out the front.

I smiled in silence for a few miles, until I turned on the radio. A worship
song slid through the car. Suddenly I heard raspy whispering beside me.

Humbled, I listened. In their fevers and illness, my sons had
consistently chosen gentleness and worship. In raspy voices with shaky breaths,
on their own in empty cars with me, they taught me lessons on choosing joy,
choosing worship.

I grinned, thankful for them, and so slow in learning this
lesson that God had to show it to me multiple times, I joined in.

…‘Cuz what if Your blessings come through
raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if trials of this life
Are Your mercies in disguise?...

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

She was the friend who invited me over for peanut butter and jelly one day.

Juggling our kids in the hallway after Thursday morning Bible study, she spontaneously invited my kids and I, and several other moms and kids, over for a spontaneous let's-scrounge-up-and-share-whatever-food-is-available-lunch. Over peanut butter and grape jelly, we smoothed toddlers' faces, nursed babies, and poured endless tin cups of milk and water. Her dining room and kitchen were deliciously lived in, and she welcomed us into her life and home, teaching me mounds about true hospitality. Moms and kids were welcomed, safe; crumbs were allowed; and our conversations flowed long that afternoon.

Today she drove here under gloomy clouds, pulling a trailer behind her. Despite an ominous sky, the websites cheerily announced a scant ten percent chance of precipitation. Two daughters piled out, clambering up my steps, and racing comfortably into the house. My youngest ones were happy for companionship too.

We poured hot coffee, pulling wooden chairs close to talk over kids and toys. Peering out the windows we worried about rain.

"Will your bookshelves be okay? Do you have tarps?"

The last of our belongings were coming home today, if the thunderstorms would hold off long enough. Grey skies suddenly split and the rain smashed loud against the deck and house.

"Do you have a bit of leeway?" I wondered. "Can we wait ten minutes to see if it clears?" We checked storm radar websites, guessing at the duration.

Fifteen minutes later, in a lull, we dashed across the yard to her truck. Soaking wet, we clinked seatbelts and turned on the vents. "Everything we do together becomes an adventure," she laughed.

Two hours later, I hugged her, and she drove away. Raindrops were evaporating off my bookshelves, but they were safely home.

During some time in God's word last week, I came across an NIV study note that grabbed my attention. Being a language lover, the Latin interpretation of a word struck me. Did you know that "companion" means "with bread"? Your friends and family, the people you do life with, that come "with bread" -- cum panis --those are your companions.

Who are your "with bread" people? Which of the people in your life take time to do life together, to invite you over for coffee or peanut butter sandwiches, or who linger to talk long?

It makes me ponder where am I doing life "with bread" as well? Who am I being intentional about doing life with?

It takes time. It takes effort, but it's worth it. So, this week, this summer, pause with me... Don't worry about the state of your home, and look at the people around you. Who can you invite over for peanut butter and grape jelly? Where can you drive a trailer, or invite kids over for an afternoon, and do life "cum panis," as companions?

Had you heard this interpretation before? How are you intentional about building companions? Who is someone who has embodied this to you?

Monday, July 16, 2012

The wind blows hard, swaying the towering greens, and
awkwardly dancing the brown pine that’s in rigor mortis. Summer falls hot and
heavy. From behind air-conditioned windows, I contemplate projects, dropping
landscaping down to the bottom of the list. Paint trays stack in the laundry
room, awaiting creamy Canyon Cloud.

My daughter sits slack-jawed and glassy-eyed on the couch
near me, waiting for health to come. A summer cold and bouts with mono have
left several of us weak and slow-moving. Quiet seeps deep into our home, our bones, and
health returns with naps and time.

I have been quiet in groups the last few days -- months,
really. Rediscovering my place and role in a shifting time, learning to trust
and invest anew. Thoughtful quiet and listening is good for me. I talk to my
Abba, and gently step.

In the distance, traffic whirs subtly; cars pass in near
silence; and gauzy cotton fluffs sail past the window. The wind blows hard, silent
movement out the window.

Friday, July 13, 2012

But we’ve all done it at some time, and it happens most
often with toddlers or preschoolers.

The setting is different for everyone, but it comes up. In
the lull of a terse conversation, a child pipes in. Depending on their language
abilities, the words vary, but the meaning is the same. Written across their
brow, stamped into their eyes, and tilted into their head slant is the same
question. “What’s wrong?”

They heard it in our voices, or saw it in our eyes. Causes
vary: a stressful work situation, a
financial tightness, or a brief marriage spat.

Right then, we face a choice.

Ten years ago, I responded differently than I do today. A friend of mine revolutionized the way I
answer that question.

Ten years ago, I would have gently changed the conversation,
or brushed aside my toddler’s questions with a slight “It’s nothing. We’re fine”-kind
of answer. I so easily wanted to err on the side of protecting them from
troubles or disagreements.

My friend Anne, a counselor in the mental health field for
over twenty years, a licensed social worker with a masters in educational
counseling and a certified Crisis Intervention Specialist quietly taught me differently
one day as we worked together nearby.

Children are so
intuitive and observant. They sense when mom or dad are tense, angry or upset.
But when we dismiss their worries, it discredits their inner gut feeling that
something isn’t right. Anne went on to explain that while our motives are
pure in wanting to keep their minds free of concerns, we end up doing our
children a disservice because they learn to not trust their gut feelings that
speak up announcing tension, troubles, or potentially dangerous situations.

Building confident,
perceptive children starts with acknowledging what they are sensing and can’t put
into words yet.

Your choice? My choice? In that moment when huge brown eyes
are staring up at you, under furrowed brows… pause, get down to eye level, and
affirm what they sensed.

“Yes, Daddy and I are thinking about something right now.
You’re right.”

Kiss them, smooth back that hair, and then say, “But it’ll be okay. And God is good. Thanks, my sweet.”

Anne has written a poignant hardcover children’s book giving parents and caregivers tips to help children process their emotions. Through
beautiful watercolor illustrations and a compelling story, families walk
through a child’s hurt, disappointment and grief to a repaired relationship.

I’d love to give away two copies of this book! There are
several ways to win. In the comments below, tell me your thoughts (or disagreements) on this post above, or share a piece of parenting advice you've received and your impressions of it -- both good or bad.

Here's how:

1.) Post your answer in the comments below to get your name in the hat.
2.) Optional: Answer this question on your blog also with a link to my blog there for another chance to win.
3.) Optional: After commenting with your answer here, click Share to
Facebook to post this site with your comment on your facebook wall
too.

Three ways to earn your name in
the hat for the books. Let me know what you do in the comments
section below so I can get your name listed as many times as possible.
I'll post the winner on Monday.

Our family just arrived home from five days in northern MN, where we met the great staff and volunteers of Camp Jim, and ate meals, swam, and studied God’s word alongside families from throughout MN and Iowa. Mark was the keynote speaker, and I was thrilled to speak with the women on two occasions also.

Three thousand fifty-two mosquito bites later, we drove home, crammed into a muggy vehicle beside fast-food cartons and a new hognose snake. As the sweat beaded up and traffic slowed to a one-lane crawl, we determined to stay kind and patient with each other. Knowing how easy it would be to end the trip crabby with each other, we made concentrated efforts to avoid that.

“Shhh, only the four year old is allowed to have verbal meltdowns,” we declared. “We can do this. We can use God’s help and strength to be patient with each other.”

We told jokes, laughing at our inane humor. The quips mounted and built on each other, mingling jokes in a way that was funny only to our sweaty, tired family of five. “If a zebra laid an egg…”

We played the alphabet game. We dozed off, and accidentally released the snake in the car. It didn’t get far. We worked at more jokes, and danced along to music, wiping sweat from our foreheads.

Eventually familiar sights raced by our windows, and we pulled into our driveway. “We’re home!” Bulging suitcases and sleeping bags ascended the stairs, mail slipped around my fingers, and the phone blinked at us.

Thank you, Abba, for a great week at family camp, and for speaking through us. Thanks for helping us get home cheerfully and kindly too. What a joy to laugh together.

Hi you, sorry for my absence the last five days. What have you been up to? What fun road-trip strategies does your family have?

Monday, July 2, 2012

Sneezes chase her into the house, the garage door shutting
softer than her achoos. Sleepover
energy-drains and allergies have left her red-eyed and dragging. She slinks
away to her pink room, with my suggestion for a nap trailing after her.

A weekend of painting, plumbing, and home repairs has left
our home shining and our bodies sapped, but we are thankful. Thankful for
parents who spend several vacation days with us to brush, roll, weed, wipe,
re-screen, shelve, and repair. Thankful to him...

Welcome, I'm glad you're here.

Bio

Speaker, writer, youth pastor's wife, homeschooling mom, lover of God.
With 20 years of church experience working with teens, women, and families, Jennifer is passionate about topics close to a woman's heart. Women who hear Jennifer speak come away impassioned to love their God more, rekindle the romance in their marriages, leave a legacy to their children, and further impact their sphere of influence.